Oh curs`ed clock that thou shouldst tarry so
and hurry not upon th'appointed hour.
How time's delay is torture well I know,
a captive long in time's impris'ning tower.
For consolation books alone I see
all telling tales of ladies fair and gay.
But fables bold of Knights and Chivalry
can never recompense the passing day.
For Babajaga Fair my heart doth beat
And in her smiles my soul doth find relief.
And so to live without her presence sweet,
is cause for deepest woe and bitter grief.
Unhappy thus, I sit alone, I weep, I sigh
for that far day, when in her arms, once more, I lie.
sir Sleipnir na Gralam, Knight of the Rose
After reading this poem Bizob became inspired and wrote this:
Ah, but 'tis I who, traipsing on my sodden way,
went, but again, and spied the merry lass at fighting,
and cursed the cock that roosted where it may,
and perhaps alack and luckless without a knighting,
(but lucky I was to see the display of charm)
turned mine eye away 'fore it stung me.
And though sweet would be the stinger's harm,
I'd gladly pass a dance to see
if not some other fair maiden were timely
or well-versed in the pois'nous scratch.
Time be but a thing to mark it finely
and labored long be such a catch.
Be not unhappy, sir, that you sit alone with such
honey'd remembrances of her touch.
And another exile became inspired and wrote it this way to his beloved:
My breath escapes, hissing through my teeth
I strike out with all my might
For it once was my ill-gotten belief
how I should blind my lonely sight
in fighting beast and creatures all
and roaming the forests deep
to vanquish foes and see them fall
to ease my heart-lost sleep.
But let me tell you now, I've found
the thing cannot be claimed,
no comfort is the hardened ground
if your love cannot be named.
So now the warmth of her does fill the skies
as I look into the ocean that is her eyes.